


a series of nightly explorations

by ElasticElla



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3688557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Aragorn dreams him up is after Boromir’s body leaves with the river.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a series of nightly explorations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agdhani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdhani/gifts).



> Happy birthday!

The first time Aragorn dreams him up is after Boromir’s body leaves with the river. The Son of Gondor sits up, turns and stares into his soul until the small ripples take him out of sight. Aragorn knows it’s a dream, but his feet do not listen, do not run after the small boat. 

He awakens early with wet eyes, and takes the rest of the watch. 

The river mocks- far too peaceful and pretty in dawn’s breaking light. It hurts, but not nearly as much as the river from his dreams. This one almost seems clean.

The next night, he takes Boromir’s place. Everything is bright and crisp, and he’s never dreamed like this- not without an Elvish visitor. He can taste impending destruction; his eyes ache. Dozens upon dozens of arrows pierce him, each a fresh pain. He falls down, down into the river. He can’t breathe, can’t awaken, and he thinks he took Boromir’s place, is glad. 

In the morning his eyes are wet again, but this time with disappointment. He goes back to sleep in vain; no more dreams visit him in the next two hours, sleeping lightly as he once did. He feels far older than he ought.

The third night, he’s able to chase after the boat. The water is corrosive and tries to drag him under, grasping his kicking ankles. The river almost wins once, but Boromir’s horn- for it was no longer merely Gondor’s- demands him to swim swifter. 

He reaches the boat as dawn begins to awaken him, and the vessel is empty. 

The fourth night, he drinks before going to sleep. It’s a little reckless, but he needs a full night’s sleep more than being able to wake up when an intruder is fifty paces away rather than twenty. None of the others comment, but he can’t meet their eyes. 

The fourth night, he still dreams. 

He’s laying in the boat, fresh flowers in his hair. Rather than his sword, he clasps the Horn of Gondor. It doesn’t feel right, and his eyes drag down without his permission. The horn is cracked and twisted, blood on the mouthpiece. 

The boat springs a leak, darkness filling and weighing it down. But Aragorn cannot look away from the mouthpiece. He knows how it would feel against his lips, wants the cool metal more than a last breath of air.

He doesn’t remember how it ends. 

The fifth night, he tries not to sleep. It’s unwise, beyond unwise. When he closes his eyes, the sound of waves lap against his ears, and the undertow drags him to sleep. 

Boromir is atop him, healthy and whole. The man smirks down at him, as though this is a usual game between them. It aches deeper than it should, and when Boromir leans down to kiss him, he awakens. 

The dreams stop after that. 

Aragorn tells himself he wanted them to stop long ago, that he could let go of a friend’s death. 

The river still whispers in his ears, no matter how far he walks.


End file.
